


feel so foolish

by juliusschmidt



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, M/M, Size Kink, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 05:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11329950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: Louis and his friends keep laughing at Harry; he's sure of it. But he's not sure why.





	feel so foolish

**Author's Note:**

> Ah! !! this took way too long. 
> 
> Written for the prompt: **877\. The uneasiness when you realize they're talking about you over there.**
> 
> E betaed for me as usual, the hero, the goddess. All mistakes are mine because I'm a procrastinator.
> 
> Warnings: Lots of dick talk. And some dick comparison. And maybe a little bit of meanness about smaller dicks, which- the author would _never_ , but they are high school boys so. And also I use the word 'dick' instead of 'cock' even though I prefer the latter because it felt right here.

Harry can’t get the tuck right. No matter how tight he pulls his towel, the corner just isn’t large enough to stay caught against his skin. He looks to the left and then to the right, hair whipping water droplets in a little cloud around him. He expects to find the place cleared out, and he does. He’s only one of three boys in the individual sports class (aka Advanced Gym for Non-Athletes) and the other two dashed in and out of the showers. The final bell had already rung and they’d been desperate not to miss their buses home. 

A few more steps and the blue terrycloth falls and pools at his feet. Harry glances down at his bare body and keeps on striding toward his locker, chin high and smirking a little. He’s got nothing to be ashamed of anyway. At home, he rarely wears pants. Or a shirt. Or boxers. His sister calls him a ‘nudist’ and says he should go join a cult of his own people. She’s taken to walking around their house with a hand over her eyes. 

Despite his sister’s apparent disgust, he thinks he’s looking pretty good, especially lately. Well, if one only judges from the bottom of his ribcage to the tops of his thighs, that is. 

He flexes his pecs. They don’t look any different than they ever have, which is to say, they’re still puny. He allows himself a pout over it, as he wanders to his locker. He flicks another quick look down at himself as he twists the lock open. Yep, still impressive _down there_. 

The door to the locker room slams against the wall and the air is suddenly echoing with voices and laughter. 

Harry fumbles through the pile of clothes he’d dumped into the metal bin in his rush to change for class earlier. Though he’s proud of his body, he’s not eager to show it off to the football team. 

Cause that’s who’s walked in. He’s sure of it. 

He’s just located his green striped boxers when a voice nearby says, “Uh.” 

Harry turns. Louis Tomlinson is standing less than three feet away, staring at Harry’s naked body. No, he realizes, Louis Tomlinson is standing less three feet away, staring at Harry’s naked _dick_. 

And the longer those beautiful blue eyes- beautiful blue eyes attached to broad shoulders, narrow hips, and overall the most graceful human being Harry’s every had the pleasure to watch move- stay hot on Harry’s dick, the more blood flows down to meet them. 

Many of Harry’s favorite dreams begin just like this. Louis Tomlinson finds him in the locker room, looks him down and up and down again, before stalking right up into his space and pressing his mouth to Harry’s throat and his hand to Harry’s dick. 

Harry tries to blink away that thought but it’s too late. The memory’s already sent another electric spark of desire straight to his groin. Louis Tomlinson is less than three feet away and Harry is hard. 

_Fuck_.

“Is this yours?” Louis’ gaze slithers up to his face. He’s holding out Harry’s towel. 

Harry snatches it from his grasp and mumbles, “Thanks, yeah. Sorry.” 

Louis backs away, his eyes traveling back down to Harry’s dick for a long moment before he pivots back around and toward the large lockers reserved for varsity athletes. 

As soon as he’s gone, Harry glares at his dick. Still hard, it greets his gaze with a twitch. “Behave,” he hisses. 

It might be his imagination, but he thinks it wilts a little at his words. 

He dresses quickly, trying (unsuccessfully) not to worry about the weight of Louis Tomlinson’s gaze. Was he surprised? Disgusted? Jealous? 

Or, the terrible, awful, no-good hopeful part of his brain supplies, _turned on_? 

Once he’s finished dressing, he walks to the end of the row of lockers and peeks around the corner. Louis and his friends are all still standing around, half dressed, chatting. If Harry wants to make it to the parking lot where his sister will be waiting to drive him home, he has to walk by them. 

It’s fine, he assures himself; they probably won’t even notice him. They never have before.

Harry begins to walk quickly, eyes locked on the door. He can do this. 

Except he hasn’t even made it three steps when one of the guys, a redheaded dude even scrawnier than Harry who Harry’s sure he’s _never_ seen step away from the bench during a football game, mutters something that Harry can’t make out. 

Louis immediately looks up and his gaze connects with Harry’s. He looks away so fast that Harry can’t even be sure that it happened. 

By the time Harry’s even with them, Louis’ elbowing The Redhead and muttering, “Stop it. Don’t fucking- stop.” The rest of the group is laughing and eyeing Harry. 

Harry feels hot all over. Louis must’ve seen Harry’s erection; he must’ve said something. Tears prick the back of his eyes and, for the first time in his life, he curses his stupidly large dick. 

~~~

Harry chooses a desk near the back of the classroom and slides his math homework underneath his world history textbook. He still can’t believe the number of problems he’d been assigned last hour. It’s only the first day of the new semester. 

Someone settles into the desk beside him, the legs of the chair groaning a little as they slide against the floor. Well, ‘settles’ probably isn’t the right word because the boy continues to move, stretching his back, scratching his ankle, twisting from side to side a few times, before finally turning to Harry. 

“Hey,” Louis Tomlinson says. He’s grinning. At Harry. Why is Louis Tomlinson grinning at Harry? 

Harry fights the urge to cover his lap with his hands. “Hey,” he says. Maybe he should apologize for being naked in the locker room. Maybe he shouldn’t. It was months ago, anyway. Louis probably doesn’t even remember. He’s stupid to even still be thinking of it himself. 

“So,” Louis says. “I had to miss this semester of social studies last winter because it conflicted with advanced weight training. Coach was gonna kick me off the varsity team if I didn’t bulk up.” 

Harry’s jaw drops. Louis Tomlinson is chatting to him as though they’re friends. They are not friends. 

Harry is a Louis “varsity-running-back-so-graceful-he should-be-a-ballerina” Tomlinson fan and Louis Tomlinson has seen Harry pop an accidental boner in the boys’ locker room. Naked. Which, flashing your (huge- why is he so _big_?) erection, in Harry’s experience, is not a good way to make friends with jocks. 

“Anyway, I don’t know anyone in this class and I’m terrible at history, so…” He flushes and looks down. 

Is he blushing because he’s thinking of Harry’s huge dick? Because that’s what Harry’s thinking about and that’s why Harry’s blushing. 

“Maybe we could pair up? I mean, if that’s alright.” He tugs at the bottom of his t-shirt, pulling the fabric tight over his chest. Harry thinks he can see the outline of Louis’ nipples. 

And, fuck, staring at Louis’ chest is, apparently, not the way to keep his dick soft. 

“Wait,” he says, returning his focus to Louis’ face. “What?” 

“Maybe you could help me out? Be my history friend? I’m already feeling a little lost and class hasn’t even started yet.” 

Harry fingers the corner of his textbook. “You don’t know me. I might be terrible at history.” 

“I know you’re Harry Styles and if you’re terrible at history, then at least we can be terrible together.” Louis smile broadens and he puts his fist out for Harry to bump. 

Harry stares at his hand and doesn’t move. “How do you know my name?” 

“Gemma’s a student athletic trainer. She talks about you.” 

Harry bites his lip. That’s probably only half true, but he decides to let it slide. There’s no way in hell Gemma’s talking about him to the athletes, but he can’t imagine a better explanation for why Louis Tomlinson would know his name.

With a cautious smile, he returns Louis’ fistbump.

Harry assumes that what Louis means by ‘be my history friend’ is ‘help me out when I have a question’ or, even more likely, ‘let me copy your homework.’ 

He quickly discovers that this is not the case, not at all. 

Their teacher is only one paragraph into the syllabus when Louis slides him a note. 

_hi :),_ is all it says. 

Harry wracks his brain for an appropriate response. He writes, _i’m so hungry. i packed an extra turkey and avocado sandwich for an afternoon snack. wish i had it with me now._

Louis holds on to the piece of paper for an alarmingly long time, so long that Harry begins to think he’d said the wrong thing, ended their ‘friendship’ before it had even began. But, then, just as the teacher is telling them to open their textbooks to page 252, Louis hands him back the note. 

He’s replied, _cool :) :) :)_

That’s it. Harry isn’t sure what to say in response so he writes back a simple, _:)_

Louis grins at him, but doesn’t return the note. A few minutes later, Harry sees that he’s writing something else. Unable to wait, Harry leans closer to see what he’s saying. 

He’s doodled a giant dick underneath Harry’s smiley and is adding a mess of curls to the mound atop it. 

Louis glances up as Harry’s shifting back toward his own seat and his hand jolts on the paper, but he meets Harry’s eyes and waggles his eyebrows. 

Harry can’t breathe. Maybe Louis _does_ remember his dick. Maybe he’s making a joke out of it. Maybe that’s the whole point of him sitting down beside Harry in the first place. 

They don’t say another word to each other until the end of the period, when Louis shouts a “See you tomorrow, Harry,” over his shoulder.

Harry watches as Louis’ scrawny redheaded friend greets him at the door. When the other boy catches sight of Harry, he bursts out laughing and says something to Louis, which causes Louis to choke out a laugh, as well. 

Harry’s stomach turns over. Suddenly, he’s far less interested in his sandwich. 

~~~

That night, he makes a plan to ignore Louis if he tries to talk to him the next day. Harry’s confident in who he is. He’s smart. He’s got friends. And, most of all, he’s not ashamed to have a big dick. He’s proud, as any guy would be. And so what if he got a boner in front of Louis? He’s sixteen. It could happen to anyone. At any time. 

He doesn’t need Louis’ approval or friendship. 

Except that Louis arrives early (again), sits down beside him (again), and says, “I was going over the syllabus last night and it looks like he’s gonna assign a partner poster presentation next week. Do you want to work together?” 

And Harry, bewitched by the magical pull of blue eyes and broad shoulders, says, “Okay.” 

Louis’ notes don’t stop and Harry tries to ignore that they are almost always covered in doodles of dicks. It must be a habit, he tells himself. Some people doodle swirls. Some people doodle stars. Louis doodles dicks. Nothing to do with the fact that he’d seen Harry’s dick on display. 

~~~

Harry opens the door of his home to find Louis Tomlinson standing on his front porch, backpack slung over one shoulder, wearing only a sweatshirt despite the cold. 

There’s no car in sight and Harry has no idea how he arrived. He hopes he didn’t walk. 

“Hi,” Louis says. One of his hands peeks out from where it’s been tucked inside the sweatshirt to wave at Harry. 

His fingers are bright pink and Harry realizes he must be _freezing_. He opens the door a little wider to usher him inside. 

“Sorry, I’m a few minutes late,” Louis apologizes. “Stayed at the gym a little longer than I expected.” 

Harry thinks that Louis might be on the wrestling team, but he’s not sure and he’s too intimidated to ask. It’s not like they’re friends, or something. 

And yet, here Louis is, in his home, inspecting the photographs that his mom uses to cover the walls of the front hall with open curiosity in his wide eyes. “It’s just you and Gemma, then?” he asks. 

“And Dusty,” Harry adds. Sometimes he thinks the cat is dearer to his mom than either of her children. She certainly spends a lot more time cooing and cuddling him. 

“And Dusty,” Louis repeats. He’s standing in front of the frame with Harry totally naked, wearing a crown of bubbles from the bath. Toddler Harry grins, proud and delighted by his creation, but teenage Harry doesn’t feel the same. He’s thinking about another, more recent instance, when Louis’d seen him naked, straight from the bath. Or rather, shower. 

“When’d these curls show up?” Louis asks, turning back to Harry to tug on a lock of his hair. 

Harry shrugs, scalp tingling from the playful touch. 

“Well?” Louis says, shifting and smiling at Harry. 

Louis’ been here for at least three whole minutes and they’re still standing in the front hall. _Awk_ ward.

Harry takes a deep breath. “Um, we can work and eat in the kitchen, if you’re hungry. Or we can go up to my room and work.”

Louis pulls at a loose strap of his backpack, winding and unwinding it around his fingers. “I _am_ hungry,” he says, but he doesn’t sound very certain about it. 

“My mom’s kind of a health nut, so we don’t have, like, chips or anything, but we’ve got stuff to make sandwiches and lots of fruit.” 

Harry thinks he can see Louis’ pupils dilate at the mention of sandwiches, but he says, “I guess I’m not that hungry.” He’s got his whole hand wrapped in the strap now, like some sort of ugly, black bandage. 

Harry begins to move toward the stairs. He’s been eating all afternoon and figures he can take a break until dinner. _It’s fine_ , he tells his grumbling stomach, _you’re fine._

Except just as they reach the bottom of the stairs, Louis says, “Unless… can we take the sandwiches up to your room?” And then, quickly, he adds, “I’d like to get started on the project and I’m very easily distracted, but I’m pretty hungry, too.” 

“Yeah, that’s cool.” Harry’s not sure what Louis’ said makes sense. _He’s_ going to be a hell of a lot more distracted with Louis Tomlinson in his bedroom, where he sleeps and changes and, _fuck_ , jerks off, than he would be at the kitchen table. But he also doesn’t want to _not_ have the opportunity to see Louis Tomlinson in his bedroom. _What if he lays on Harry’s bed?_

Harry won’t be able to sleep in it after that. His dick will never be soft ever again. 

Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately _,_ Harry’s traitorous mind supplies), when they finally make their way up to Harry’s room, Louis sits on the floor, sandwich in lap. He makes quick work of it, finishing the last bite of it as Harry reaches the halfway mark with his own. 

After he’s done, he makes no move to take out his homework. Instead, he stands and wanders around the room, taking in Harry’s posters and bookshelves and photographs. 

And then Louis- Harry’s heart stops and he drops his sandwich onto the plate beside him- _Louis Tomlinson_ throws himself back onto Harry’s bed, arms wide, ankles dangling off the edge, settling into the mattress with a with a low moan. It vibrates through Harry like a sex noise, the kind of low, pleased sound Harry’s only heard people make on porn. 

“Your mattress is _heaven_.” Louis’ words are high and a little breathy. 

Harry doesn’t trust his own voice not to crack, so he doesn’t tell Louis about how his mom thinks that it’s too soft, that it’s responsible for his back problems, nor about the strange urge he has to kiss the half-inch of pale skin between the top of Louis’ shoes and bottom of his sweats. 

Louis rolls over, so that his face is smashed into Harry’s pillows and his ass is up in the air and he’s _still_ _on Harry’s bed._

With shaky hands, Harry pulls out his social studies book and laptop, spreading their work out over the floor. He breathes in carefully and wills his dick to behave. He’s wearing jeans that usually hide him pretty well, even when he’s half hard. 

However, if Louis continues to roll around on his bed _moaning,_ Harry’s going to be a little more than half-hard. 

He hears the bed covers rustling and looks up. Louis has wrapped himself in Harry’s blue duvet and is edging his way down the bed toward Harry. 

“I guess we can work, if you want.” Louis says. And Harry thinks, _what else would we do?_

“Hang out. Talk. Listen to music. Play video games. Watch movies,” Louis says and Harry realizes that he’d asked the question out loud. 

Harry feels hot all over, wondering if he’s said any of his other (x-rated) thoughts out loud by accident. 

Louis slides down over the side of the bed. “Ouch, _fuck_ ,” he says as his ass lands on the floor, with a thud. 

“Wouldn’t think it would hurt with all that padding,” Harry says and then slaps a hand over his mouth. What’s gotten into him? Louis Tomlinson comes over, acts out the beginning of a porno on his bed, and suddenly _Harry’s_ talking the kind of shit he only ever speaks out loud to his sister and his best friend. 

Louis’ jaw drops and then he rolls over, turning his ass toward Harry and gazing at it over his shoulder. He grabs it- Louis Tomlinson is in Harry’s bedroom grabbing his own ass- and says, “Are you calling me fat?” 

Harry places his textbook in his lap. “Not fat. I think it’s nice.” 

That shuts Louis up. He plops his (very nice) bottom back down on the carpet and tugs at the hem of his sweatshirt. Finally, he says, “Oh. Thanks.” 

They’re quiet for a few long moments. God, Harryis _such_ a fuck-up. Louis definitely never going to talk to him again. First, he gets a (too huge) boner in front of him _in the locker room_ and then he tells him he think his ass is nice? Harry will literally _never_ live this down. 

In the awkward silence that ensues, Louis crawls across the floor to his backpack. Harry pointedly does not look at his ass, which is high and aimed in Harry’s direction yet again. 

When Louis returns with his textbook, he settles close beside Harry, presumably so that he can see what Harry’s doing on his laptop. Their knees are touching and Harry’s so grateful for the book in his lap, no matter how weird it may seem. 

Harry’s pulling up a wikipedia page about ancient Chinese dynasties when Louis says, “Usually when my friends say shit like that about my ass, they’re making fun of me.” 

Harry swallows. He’s been trying to forget about Louis’ ass and about the awkward conversation they’d had about it. 

Louis apparently isn’t, though, because he adds, “I’m glad you think it’s nice.” 

Harry freezes. His fingers are hovering over the keyboard beside him, but he doesn’t remember what he was going to type. 

Slowly, he turns to Louis. “Are _you_ making fun of _me_?” 

His voice is pitched so low he barely recognizes it as his own. 

Louis shakes his head. “No, I think you’re…”

Harry bites his lip, terrified of what Louis’ about to say. But Louis doesn’t say anything. Instead, he closes the distance between them, placing his mouth firmly against Harry’s own. 

_What is happening?_ Harry wonders and then his mind goes white. Louis’ lips are soft and a little wet and Harry feels like he’s walking through clouds, head spinning from the height, his whole body surrounded by moist, velvety pillows. 

And then it’s over. Louis’ pulling back, eyes wide. He looks terrified and Harry’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach. 

He’s going to be angry. He’s going to use this as an excuse to spread even _worse_ rumors about Harry all over school. Harry closes his eyes. He can’t bear to look at him. 

But then, softly, Louis says, “Sorry. I should have asked first. I meant to ask first. I had it all planned out. I’m sorry. Is it okay that I kissed you? Can I kiss you more?” 

_Oh_ , Harry thinks, _oh..._

Louis’d said, _Can I-_

Harry answers by leaning in to press their lips together again. It’s an awkward, jerky movement, but Louis must not mind because he returns the kiss. In fact, this time Louis’ tongue plies the seam of Harry’s lips apart and his hand finds its way to Harry’s thigh. The book in Harry’s lap is a torturous weight now, making the situation worse instead of better, as his dick strains against it. 

If Louis’ hand moves even half an inch up, the back of his thumb will be touching Harry’s hard on. 

Meanwhile, Louis’ tongue has grown more playful, teasing Harry’s own into a dance. Harry can’t help it, he _whimpers_. 

And Louis pulls away again. He looks as dazed as Harry feels, his wet lips parted, his fingers digging in harder against the meat of Harry’s thigh. 

“Wow,” Louis says. 

Harry bites his lips and tilts his head. “What?” he rasps. 

Which, that’s a stupid question. Harry feels the same wonder that Louis’ expressed. Still, he wants to hear for certain that Louis liked the kisses as much as he did. 

“You,” Louis says. “That kiss.” 

“It was good?” Harry guesses. 

Louis nods and kisses him again. 

~~~

Harry’s lips are _so_ messed up. He can’t believe Gemma didn’t notice this morning and say something to him about it. Actually, he kind of wishes she had. Then, he could have asked to borrow her chapstick. 

He and Louis had kissed _a lot,_ yesterday. Harry thinks they must’ve been at it for at least forty minutes before Louis’ friend had called to come pick him up. 

Just kissing, though. No wandering hands. No bodies pressed together. No romantic confessions or sexy talk. Just Louis’ lips on his lips.

Just Louis’ _perfect_ lips on his lips. Harry’s only hooked up two other boys, both at summer camp, and he’s never spent that much time _just kissing_. 

He and Louis hadn’t gotten _any_ work done on their project. Harry’s not sure what to do about that. They’re supposed to have a written update about their progress to turn in in class today. Harry doesn’t even have Louis’ number to text him about it. 

Sitting in first hour, he considers writing it himself- maybe during lunch- when his phone buzzes. The message is from Gemma. 

_Louis told Susan to tell me to tell you that he finished your assignment for history_

And then, _i didn’t know louis was in your history class_

_Or that he came over to our house last night. You have some explaining to do. See you at lunch. !!!!!_

Gemma had been busy babysitting last night. So what if he hadn’t told her about Louis coming over? It’s not like it was any of her business. 

~~~

Harry hides out in the library during lunch- he has _work_ to do- so Gemma doesn’t have a chance to corner him until she gets home from doing her training thing for the wrestling team later that evening.

The door to his room bangs open, startling Harry so much that he rolls off his bed and onto the floor. He struggles to free himself from his duvet. He thinks it smells a little like Louis. Which is it say that it smells like sweaty boy. And Harry is also a sweaty boy, so maybe he’s imagining it. 

Lately, he’s been imagining a lot of things involving Louis. In his bedroom. On his bed. 

“Harry?” Gemma asks, peeling the covers back from around his head. 

He grins up at her. “Gemma?” 

She shakes her head and hops up onto his bed. Peering down at him, she asks, “So what’s this about you and Louis being friends?” 

Harry sits up and shakes his head back at her. “We’re not friends.” 

“And yet he came over to our house yesterday and spent an hour and half in your bedroom.” 

She makes is sound so dirty. And it kind of was, but she doesn’t know that. “It was only fifty minutes in my bedroom. We had sandwiches first.” 

She smirks. “Okay. What was he doing here if he’s not your friend? Is he your boyfriend?” 

“No!” Harry replies and pulls the blankets back over his head. “You know we were working on a history assignment.” 

Gemma kicks him. “What was that? Come on, Harry. Your biggest crush was here. In your bedroom. Give me the dirt.” 

“We were working on our history project,” Harry repeats into the blanket. It’s becoming difficult to breath, but he doesn’t want Gemma to be able to look him in the eye. That’s a recipe for disaster. 

Gemma kicks him again. “I didn’t get that. Come on. Tell me.” 

Harry pulls the blanket off his face and lays down on the floor, eyes on the ceiling and _not_ his sister. “We were working on our history project.” 

“Does that involve making out?” 

Harry groans, covering his face with his hands. “Am I that obvious?!” 

Gemma shrieks and kicks him again, hard in the hip this time. When he shouts and sits up, grabbing at his side, she says, “Sorry, reflexes. But _what_? I was _joking!_ You made _out_ with him?” 

She drops to the floor of the room and suddenly they’re at eye level. “Are you fucking with me? Did you and Louis Tomlinson really _make out_?” 

Harry bites his lip and looks down. Then, he nods. 

Gemma shakes him. “Oh my god! That’s so cute! I thought he might be into boys! Ah!” 

Harry tries not to grin, but he can’t help it. It is pretty fucking amazing that Louis Tomlinson came over to his house, rolled around on his bed, and then kissed him. 

And what a kiss it was, too. 

“Oh my god, you’re in love, aren’t you?” Gemma’s beaming at him. And this, _this_ is why he hadn’t wanted to tell her. The gushing is one thing, but the jumping to hopeful but false conclusions is another entirely. 

“No,” Harry warns. “Don’t even go there. He’d probably heard I was gay and just wanted to, you know, experiment. It’s probably nothing.” 

Gemma’s brows furrow. “That’s horrible.” 

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, but that’s how a lot of guys are.” 

Gemma smacks him. “No, I mean that’s horrible of you to assume the worst of him. Louis is a nice guy.” 

Harry bites his lips. Harry hopes she’s right, but he’s had his heart broken by making romantic assumptions in the past. 

He decides to turn the interrogation back on her. “Have you got a date to the Winter Ball?” 

Gemma shakes her head. “After the disaster at Homecoming- I still wonder, you know, why don’t boys like to dance?- I’ve decided I’d just have more fun going stag with my friends. We’re dress shopping on Saturday.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Harry likes to dance. But he wasn’t at Homecoming and he won’t be at Winter Ball. His best friend recently acquired a boyfriend and, after their trip to the mall last weekend, he’s had enough third-wheeling to last him a lifetime. 

“You going to go with Louis?” Gemma’s eyes twinkle. 

“I already told you, we’re not like that!” 

“But what if you _were_?” Gemma presses and Harry jumps up and tackles her, clobbering her in the face with his duvet. 

~~~

Louis spends three more evenings in Harry’s bedroom before the project is due. They put in at least an hour of work on the thing. In total. 

It’s not a challenging assignment and they can do a lot of it on their own. 

They make good use of their remaining time together, in Harry’s opinion. Harry learns a lot, although more about the contours of Louis’ mouth and the soft heat of the skin on Louis’ lower back than about the Zhou dynasty. 

The night before the project is due, they’re leaning up against Harry’s bed, kissing and kissing kissing, poster a few feet away, gleaming with drying glue, when Louis suggests, “Let’s watch a movie.” 

His lips are wet and Harry doesn’t know if it’s from Harry’s spit or Louis’ own. Probably both, he thinks and butterflies erupt low in his belly. 

“Come on. Let’s watch a movie.” Louis says again. 

Harry closes his eyes and tries to think about the words coming out of Louis’ mouth. Kissing Louis makes him a little bit stupid. They’d learned quickly that in order for Harry to contribute anything of substance to their project, they needed to save the kissing for _after_ they finished their work. 

(Harry hopes his mother hadn’t looked too closely at the big poster board he put out with the recycling, at least not so closely as to be able to read the scribbled out heading, _Zhou Dick_.) 

“A movie?” Harry repeats. No, Harry doesn’t want to watch a movie. Harry wants to keep kissing Louis. Louis’ ride is supposed to be here in twenty minutes and after tonight they’ll no longer have an excuse to spend time together in Harry’s room. Harry can’t _bear_ to think about wasting this last little bit of time they have together _not_ kissing. 

“We could hop up on your bed, pull out your laptop-” Harry thinks Louis keeps talking, but he can’t be sure because he’s scrambling to untangle himself from Louis. 

_Harry’s bed_. It’s been torture, making out on the floor this last week, but suggesting they get up on his bed had seemed way too _forward_ to Harry. 

He pulls Louis up with him and drags him on top of the duvet. Harry’s not much interested in pulling out his laptop and choosing a movie and Louis must not be either because he’s crawling on top of Harry, hoisting him higher and higher up on the bed. 

The blankets are scrunching up all around them, catching on Harry’s clothes. Louis’ teeth are gently scraping against the skin of Harry’s neck and Harry whines, trying to catch and hold the thought that had just come to him. 

“Maybe I can take- ?” Harry pulls at the bottom of of his own shirt and Louis sits up abruptly and nods, his hands reaching to guide Harry in pulling the top over his head. 

Louis inspects him for a long moment, long enough for Harry to remember how scrawny he is compared to Louis and most of his football friends. He begins to fold his arms across his chest, but Louis stops him and pins his wrists to his sides. 

“I was a little distracted, but I _thought_ you had four nipples!” Louis says. 

Harry freezes, remembering that this is not the first time Louis has seen his bare chest. The last time, he’d told his friends about it and they’d _laughed_ at Harry. The sweet excitement building in Harry’s belly begins to sour. 

Except then Louis dives in, pressing his mouth to one of Harry’s ‘normal’ nipples and Harry cries out in surprise, and pleasure. Because, _fuck_ , it feels _so_ good, way better than when Harry has rubbed it with spit wet fingers. 

Mouth now pressed against the center of Harry’s chest, Louis murmurs, “You like that?” 

Harry nods, hoping Louis will do it again. 

But he doesn’t, instead he presses Harry back and back so he’s laying flat again and begins to kiss down the center of his chest over his belly, all the way to the top of Harry’s pants. 

Harry follows the movement with his eyes and sees, with a little flush of pride _and_ shame, that his jeans are doing _nothing_ to hide his erection. He’s so big and Louis already knows it and probably thinks about it and has told his _friends_ about it. 

Louis’ fingers pop the button at the top of Harry’s fly out of its hole and then still. Softly, meeting Harry’s gaze, he says, “May I? Don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to.” 

“ _Please_.” Harry groans, nodding because _he does want, more than anything._ He catches his lip between his teeth and bites down hard at the feel of Louis’ fingers guiding the zipper over the line of his _dick._ An embarrassing noise escapes from the back of his throat.

Louis pulls Harry’s jeans down carefully, pausing at his knees to map the bare skin of Harry’s thighs with his palms. Harry shudders. He can’t remember anyone ever touching him there before. His mother must’ve, in the bath when he was young child, but this is very different than that. Louis’ lips press a kiss to the outside of each of his knees before he finishes the job and tosses Harry jeans atop his shirt. 

Harry watches Louis’ faces as his hands play with the elastic at Harry’s waist. The red skin of his dick is peaking out of the fly of his boxers, but he thinks it’s behaving rather well, given the circumstances. 

That is, until Louis says, “I want to see you naked again,” and it jumps a little, blurting a spot of precome onto the plaid fabric. 

“You can,” Harry allows, voice cracking on the second word. 

Louis doesn’t hesitate and he doesn’t take his time. He tugs off Harry’s underwear in one swift motion and throws it aside. Harry misses where it lands it because Louis is leaning in and Harry can feel his hot breath against the head of his dick. 

“You’re so _big_ ,” Louis murmurs, his eyes assessing, probably measuring the length and girth of him, mentally comparing Harry’s to the other dicks he’s seen. 

His hand moves up Harry’s thigh and his fingers are less an inch away from wrapping around him when Harry hears feet thumping- _running_ \- up the stairs. No one in his house sounds like _that_. 

“Louis?” An unfamiliar voice calls out. _Shit._

Harry topples over the side of the bed, grabbing the pile of his clothes as he goes. _Shit._

The door creaks open. “Harry? Louis?” _Oh, fuck._

Harry peers under his bed to see a pair of snow boots standing just inside the room, and behind them in the doorframe are his mom’s pink socked feet. 

“Hi, Louis,” his mom says, voice warm, but tinged with a hint of concern. “Where’s Harry?” 

“I’m looking for something, Mom.” 

“Well, don’t get lost under there. I need your help with dinner.” 

Harry scrambles to find his boxers, but they’re not in the pile of clothes he’d pulled over the side of the bed with him. 

Fuck, he doesn’t care. Who needs underwear, anyway? His mom will never know. 

“Louis, are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner? Your friend here can stay, too.” 

Someone makes a noise. It sounds like they’re choking. As quietly as he can, Harry slips one leg into his pants and then the other. 

“No, thank you. My mom will be expecting me,” Louis says, as Harry pulls his shirt over his head. 

He sees a blue pen on the floor and grabs it. “Aha,” he cries as he stands. 

His mom frowns and shakes her head, before walking away. She was _not_ fooled. Shit. 

Louis’ making a show of gathering his stuff, even though he hadn’t even taken anything out of his bag. Mostly he’s rearranging Harry’s things on Harry’s desk. His movements _seem_ deliberate but Harry assumes he’ll have a mess to clean up after Louis leaves. 

Louis’ friend steps further into the room and crosses his arms over his chest, “Come on, man. I have to pick my brother up from basketball after I drop you off.” 

“Yeah, right.” Louis’ voice sounds strange, rough, still affected by _Harry._

Harry doesn’t dare glance down, but he’s pretty sure that he’s still affected, too. 

“Hey, man.” It takes Harry a moment to realize that Louis’ friend is addressing _him_. But he gets it when the other boy gestures casually with his hand and adds, “Your fly is open, buddy.” 

_Buddy_? _Who even says that?_ Harry’s first reaction is to bristle at the name. But then Harry thinks about the rest of what he’s said and wants drop back to the floor, roll underneath his bed and stay there forever. 

The haze of embarrassment and panic grows thicker around him as he reaches down to fix the problem. He can’t help but notice that he was right. _Still affected_. 

“Good work today,” Louis says from the door. Harry can’t help but think that this sounds like something he’d say to teammates after practice. Which, what they were doing didn’t feel like ‘work’ or even a game to Harry, not at all. “See you around.” 

Harry nods and gives them a little wave. 

As soon as their backs are to Harry, Louis’ friend says something that Harry can’t make out and they both burst out laughing. 

Harry lays down on the floor of his room and wonders if he has what he’d need to make a voodoo doll of Louis and stab it. 

How did something so great turn so ugly so fast? 

~~~

The next day, Harry arrives at History before Louis. He decides to sit three seats to the left of his usual spot. It’s a weak attempt to put some distance between himself and Louis and it fails because Louis sits down beside him anyway. 

“I like the change of scenery,” Louis says, leaning back in his chair and cradling his head in his hands. 

The different angle doesn’t change Harry’s view of the classroom; he still spends the whole hour gazing at Louis from the corner of his eye. But today he _feels_ different about the view. Today, he’s back to where he started, trying to determine if Louis is fucking with him. 

Half-way through, Louis slips him a note. _You looked good yesterday x_

Harry frowns. He could be talking shit. Except that he’s included that little ‘x’ and while they’ve shared dozens of kisses over the last few weeks, those two little lines mean more to Harry than any of them. That’s the kind of kiss you send to someone you _like_. 

Harry writes back, _thanks x_

As they’re leaving class, Louis says, “Do you want to study together again next week?” 

Harry nods, feeling a little in awe of the fact that Louis still wants to spend time with him, even though the project is over. He pictures Louis’ little ‘x’ and knows he’s grinning stupidly. 

“Okay,” Louis says. “I’ll text you.” 

Harry sees Louis’ friend waiting outside the classroom door and this time, when the two of them meet up, they don’t look at Harry and they don’t laugh. Maybe everything is going to be okay, after all. 

~~~

Gemma slides into the chair that Harry’s best friend and her boyfriend had just occupied. Around them, everyone’s starting to pack up their lunches and head back to class. Harry’s not sure he has time for a sibling tête-à-tête himself, but her eyes are twinkling and her lips are pursed, nearly bursting with gossip, no doubt. 

For a very, very long ten seconds, Harry pretends he’s not curious, before bursting himself. “What? What is it now?” 

“Well,” Gemma draws out the word and Harry kicks her underneath the table. “Ouch! Okay, alright, I’ll tell you. Emma has shop class with Oli and he said-” 

Emma is Gemma’s best friend. But, “Who’s Oli?”

Gemma rolls her eyes, “You knowOli. He’s Louis’ best friend, the one that always picks him up from our house. The one with the car.” 

Harry frowns. _Fucking_ Oli. He’s the one who’s always laughing with Louis (at Harry). He’s the one who’d caught them. Harry doesn’t like him. 

And every time Oli texts Louis during Harry and Louis’ study sessions, Louis turns pink and giggly. Harry doesn’t like that, either. 

“Anyway, Oli told Emma that Louis doesn’t have a date to the Winter Ball.” She puts her hands flat on the table and stares at Harry, clearly expecting her words to have an impact. 

They do not. “I know that. He told me three days ago that he was thinking of asking someone.” Casually, between kisses. Harry’d tried not to let it ruin the moment, but it kind of (definitely) had. 

“Emma also said that Oli also said that Louis is definitely gay. Like, apparently Oli was like, ‘He’d like to go with a guy, but he’s too chickenshit to ask.’ So he’s definitely interested in guys.”

“Gemma,” Harry leans across the table to hiss. “I know he’s interested in guys. I told you we, like, made out and stuff.”

“Oh my god, you are so dense. He’s interested in _going to the Winter Ball with a guy_. He’s just too scared to ask. So you’re a guy he makes out with all the time so he’d probably like to go _with you_ and you should ask.” 

Their gazes lock as a whole slew of protests rise up in the back of Harry’s throat. _What if Louis’ not interested in_ him? _What if the message somehow got garbled up along the way and Louis actually does already have a date? Or what if Louis didn’t have a date whenever it was that Oli and Emma talked, but he does now?_

Gemma folds her arms across her chest and lifts one corner of her mouth. A dare. 

Harry decides to voice the most pertinent _what if._ “What if _I’m_ too scared to ask?” 

“You’ve never backed down from a challenge, Harry Styles,” Gemma says, standing. “I’m gonna be late to class if I stick around to watch, though, so good luck.” 

She nods to her left and Harry follows her gaze. He already knows exactly what she’s looking at. Or, rather, _who_. Because he’s been watching Louis and his friends out of the corner of his eye for the last 27 minutes. 

Quickly, before he can think the better of it, he starts in Louis’ direction. Louis likes guys, maybe even _him_. He has no reason to believe that Oli would lie to Emma or that Emma would lie to Gemma or that Gemma would lie to him. It’s likely- probable, even- that Louis _does_ want to go to the Winter Ball. And that, even if he’d _planned_ to ask someone else, he might settle for Harry.

Harry can do this. Unlike Louis, _he’s_ not too chickenshit to ask. At least, he doesn’t think he is. 

His heart is beginning to pound. He can hear the blood roaring in his ears. Honestly, he’s not sure if it’s fear or courage. Or both. 

 

Louis’ bright red and his face can’t seem to decide whether it’s going to settle for scowling and laughter. The rest of the table’s laughing, though, and whatever it is they’re laughing at must be pretty damn funny because The Redhead- _Oli_ \- is actually smacking his thighs and shaking. 

A different friend, tall and dark haired (and handsome), is the first to see Harry approaching and his eyes go wide. He elbows Louis in the ribs, saying, very loudly, “Here he is now, bro.” 

Harry freezes. The guy can’t _possibly_ mean _Harry._ But he’s looking at Harry. Suddenly all of them are. 

“Hey, Louis,” Harry stammers. 

Tall, Dark and Handsome shoves at Louis’ shoulders and waggles his eyebrows. “Yeah, buddy,” he says. 

Louis swallows and meets Harry’s eyes. 

Louis and his friends had been _talking_ about him, about _Harry,_ and now Harry’s standing in front of them, mouth open with nothing else to say. 

He can’t seem to unstick his mind or his lips, can’t seem to find the words he’d come over to say. 

The cafeteria’s mostly empty, now, which means there are fewer people to see Harry stumble through this shitty mistake, but, also, it’s quieter, which means that every person left will hear every miserable word of this exchange. 

“Hey,” Louis replies, his friends _finally_ quieting down. The blue of his eyes brings to mind the rhythmic rush of ocean waves, settling Harry’s nerves a bit. “Did you finish that history assignment after I left last night?” 

“Ooo. Ooo. What kept you from finishing the assignment together? What were you two doing _before_ he left?” Louis’ redheaded friend asks. Harry thinks he talks too much.

Although. Wait.

“Actually,” Harry smiles, suddenly weak with relief. Here’s his out. “That’s why I was coming over. I thought maybe I could check my answers against yours. I wasn’t sure about a couple of the questions.” 

“He wants to ‘check his answers against yours,’ Louis.” The way the other guy says it makes it sound super dirty. 

Harry hadn’t meant it like that, not at all. 

“No,” he wracks his brain, trying to remember something, _anything,_ from the assignment. “Essay number two, that one felt really tricky to answer.” 

The bell rings and several of the guys immediately clamber out from around the table, shouting their goodbyes. The Redhead stands, but waits by Louis’ side.

“Yeah, I’ll try to get to class early and grab a seat by you to go over it.” 

They _always_ arrive early and they _always_ sit next to each other. Still, Louis’ comment sends a shiver of excitement and relief through Harry. 

He doesn’t have any idea that Harry was about to embarrass himself by asking him to the dance and he still wants to sit next to Harry later. Cha-ching! 

“Cool,” Harry says. 

“Cool,” Louis repeats. 

~~~

Harry stares past Gemma, gaze blurring on the red bleachers shoved up against the wall. 

Gemma stares back. He knows she’s trying to meet his eyes. He can feel the poking and prodding of her scrutiny, the challenge driving it. 

He knows what she sees. He’s wearing an expensive black suit, a bowtie, and a heavy, itchy irritation that even Drake’s crooning can’t seem to lift from his shoulders. 

It’s the Winter Ball. He’s supposed to be living it up, having the time of his life, drinking and laughing and making out with his First True Love on the dance floor. 

Instead, he’s having a staring contest with his (annoying) older sister. 

“Are you going to go talk to him or what?” The moment Harry finally allows their eyes to meet, Gemma looks away, nodding towards ‘ _him_.’ Harry’s pulse picks up and he does not follow her gaze. 

“Why would I do that? I’m having a wonderful time chatting with my date.” Harry takes a handful of popcorn from the bowl in the middle of the table and throws it back into his mouth. 

He winces. Oh, yeah. It’s stale and tasteless. A fact he’d learned three handfuls back. He chokes it down anyway. 

Gemma throws a piece of popcorn at him and it hits his cheek before falling into his lap. “I’m not your date, I’m your sister.” 

Harry lifts an eyebrow. “I bought you a corsage.” 

“You did.” Gemma holds out her wrist, admiring the little bouquet. Though in this light it’s nearly impossible to tell, the pink is a perfect match to her dress. Harry’d made sure of it. 

Gemma drops her hand to the table and refixes her gaze on Harry. “But you also bought one for Emma and Jenny and Susan. So.” 

“My other dates. Whom I’m going to go dance with.” Harry pushes out of the chair with a clatter and surveys the gyrating mass of bodies across the gym. 

His shoes squeak, leaving behind black smudges on the waxed basketball court as he skip-trips to the group of senior girls twirling and rocking and shimmying at the edge of the dance floor. Gemma’s friends are wild and he’s so grateful they let him tag along. 

How else is a scrawny, gay sophomore supposed to find a date to the Winter Ball? 

_You could have asked Louis._ He hears the thought in Gemma’s voice and turns over his shoulder to glare at her. She’s following close on his tail, of course. 

As soon as he reaches the other girls, he begins to shimmy a little, slinking into his signature move: ‘In The Shower.’ He rubs his hands up and down over his tummy and chest, reaches up and pulls at his hair, and, then, for the grand finale, cups himself. 

Of course, it’s in this moment that his gaze collides with Louis’ fifteen feet away. Harry thinks he can make out the blue of his eyes even in the semi-dark. He feels his cock jerk beneath his palm and drops his hand. 

Louis gaze follows the motion and then, with a jerk of his head, he turns to his friend, The Redhead- _what was his name?_ \- he’s always hanging around with, to mutter something into his ear. The kid cackles loud enough that the sound carries all the way to Harry. 

Harry hates them both. Even if Louis is an amazing kisser, it doesn’t matter. Even if he keeps coming over week after week to ‘study’ and even if he passes Harry debatably romantic notes during class, none of that matters. 

He’s always _talking_ about Harry and _laughing_. At the end of the day, when the lights are on and he’s in front of his friends, Harry’s a joke to him. And Harry doesn’t have to stand for that kind of humiliation. 

Harry should have put a stop to his stupid crush and their stupid make-out sessions _weeks_ ago. 

“Whatcha doin’, baby brother?” Gemma singsongs, swinging one of his arms. “Thought you came over here to dance with your dates?” 

Harry shakes his head, curls bouncing at the edge of his vision. He looks around at Gemma and her friends. They’re laughing at him, too, but it feels different, like he can laugh with them (and right back at them).

He says, “Get in losers, we’re going shopping.” 

Then he whips his hands out in front of him, placing them on his imaginary cart and begins to boogie around the group, stopping occasionally to pull an item off an imaginary shelf, inspect it, and place it in his cart. 

Louis’ a dick, but so what? What the fuck does he care if Louis and his loser friend make fun of him behind his back? He’s comfortable in his skin. He’s got nearly half a dozen beautiful girls here, all as his dates, shimmying and giggling beside him. He doesn’t need Louis or his stupid broad shoulders or his stupid blue eyes. And he _definitely_ doesn’t need his stupid loud laugh, the breathy notes of it catching Harry’s ear even over the thrum of the bass and the roar of the crowd.

~~~

Later, Gemma winds up beside him. She’s got a glint in her eye when she leans in to say, “He keeps looking over here and then talking to his friends.” 

“He and his stupid friends can _fuck off_ ,” Harry hisses, fists clenching. 

Gemma laughs, shaking her head. She tugs at Harry’s bow tie and then smooths her hands down the lapels of his suit jacket. “You look good.” She glances over her shoulder at Louis, who’s watching them _again_. Now, _she’s_ making itobvious that _they’re_ talking about _him_. “I think he wants to dance with you.” 

Harry closes his eyes. He feels as much as hears the buzz of the bass. “How many times do I have to tell you. Just because someone wants to be your partner on a history project does not mean that they want to go to the Winter Ball with you!” 

Gemma’s cool finger taps his cheek and he opens his eyes. Big mistake. Now, her eyes are positively glittering, as she replies, “It does if he keeps using your ‘study sessions’ as ‘makeout sessions.’” 

Harry feels himself turn pink. He takes a deep breath and then blows it out. Her bangs flutter against her cheek. “Just because someone makes out with every time you’re alone together for a month straight doesn’t mean they want to spend time hanging out with you. It doesn’t mean they _like_ you.” 

“Emma told me that Oli told her than Louis told him that-” 

Harry knows where Gemma’s sentence is going so he cuts her off, “Gemma, no. They’re lying. He and Oli have been making fun of me this whole time!” 

Gemma shakes her head.

“You’re a paranoid idiot,” she says, as she grabs Harry by the shoulders and maneuvers him in the direction of Louis and his friends. Harry’s whole body stiffens and his breath catches. He begins to think that his life is _over_ , but. 

But the thing is… the thing is that Louis is walking toward him, looking straight at him, calling out his name. 

“Harry!” Louis jogs a few steps, tie flapping against his chest, and then suddenly he’s right there. “Hey. You told me that you weren’t really into school dances.” 

Harry runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back, away from his face. He can’t think of anything to say. He'd told Louis that as an excuse for not asking anyone to the Winter Ball. It wasn’t quite true. 

Actually, it wasn’t true, _at all_. Harry loves any gathering where he's encouraged to get down. He's got so many underused and underappreciated moves stuffed up the sleeve of his jacket. 

He shrugs in answer to Louis’ implicit question. His reasonable explanation seems to have gone missing. It's hiding somewhere behind his dab and wobble. 

“You found a date?” Louis asks. 

Harry begins to shake his head and then freezes. He glances over to where Louis’ friends are still dancing across the room and tries to figure out if he can see anyone waiting for Louis to return. “Have you?” 

“No, I-” Louis glances down at his shoes. They look even more pinchy than Harry’s own. “No date for me.” 

“Me either,” Harry reiterates. 

Louis’ still looking at his shoes and his shoulders are slumping lower and lower. “Yeah, so. Pretty lame.” 

“We don’t need dates. We can be each other’s dates,” Harry blurts. 

As soon as says the words he regrets them. But he can’t very well take them back. That would be awkward. Louis might think that he meant them. If doesn’t want to look stupid, he has to overplay it, and, with Beyoncé’s vocal stylings as a soundtrack, Harry thinks he can pull it off. 

He grabs Louis’ hand and tries to pull him toward the center of the mass of bodies. Louis’ fingers tighten around Harry’s, but he doesn’t budge. 

“Wait,” Louis says, “You don’t have to-” 

Harry steps close again and suddenly they’re nose to nose. He feels the frustration of the last few weeks- the embarrassment and the confusion and the humiliation of being laughed at over and over and over again- bubbling up inside of him and leaking out of his pores. “I may be a nerdy loser sophomore who hangs on his senior sister all the time, but dancing with a loser is better than dancing by yourself.” Harry’s not sure that this is true, but his mom once told him that if you wanted people to like you, all you had to do to act as though you were confident that they would. 

So far, he’s failed at that tactic with Louis. He doesn’t know if it’s the bassline steadying his pounding heart or the Monster energy drink he’d downed on the way to the dance shooting sugar straight to his brain, but, right now, right here, with hundreds of his peers as his witness, he’s ready to step out and say his piece. 

He doesn’t know how he expects Louis to respond, but he doesn’t expect the way his brows draw tight together in confusion. 

“I thought you didn’t like to dance. I just don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want.” Louis offers Harry a soft smile. 

The little lift of his lips paired with those familiar words, it’s…it’s a lot, enough to dissolve all of Harry’s ill will at once. 

“You’ve said that before,” Harry replies, remembering the same words, whispered against the skin of his neck as Louis’ fingers played with the button at the top of Harry’s jeans, flicking it open and shut until Harry groaned out a _please._

Louis’ grin blossoms in full. “Is your answer them same?” 

Harry licks his lips and nods. “Please,” he says. The word comes out a hoarse rasp, lost quickly in the noise of the room, but Louis must catch his meaning because he’s the one who steps out then, pulling Harry with him. 

And then they’re dancing. He expects Louis to try something playful- maybe twirl Harry in circles or feign waltzing- anything to put on a show for any onlookers. 

But that’s not what Louis does. Instead, he pulls Harry very, very close. 

Harry gasps as he feels the hot length of Louis’ thigh press up against his own, breathing in the spicy scent of Louis’ deodorant. Louis’ movements are slow, but rhythmic, perfectly matching the sway of the beat. 

They’re closer than Harry’s danced to anyone else in his whole life. Harry knows how to grapevine and jive and throw all sorts of other shapes, but _this,_ this kind of dancing is totally new to him. 

Pressing his cheek close to Louis’, relishing the scrape of his sandpaper stubble, Harry realizes that they’re engaged in the exact same kind of sexy, slow dancing that he and Gemma have always made fun of, swearing they’d never be so public with all that sappy stuff. 

Sure enough, when he turns his head and looks in Gemma’s direction, she’s looking back and giggling.

“What are you thinking about?” Louis murmurs into his ear. Harry doesn’t think he imagines the way Louis punctuates the question with a roll of his hips. 

“My sister is laughing at us,” Harry tells him. 

“She’s jealous,” Louis says. 

Harry doesn’t think that’s true, but he hums in agreement anyway, stepping even closer into Louis’ space. He thinks he can feel the press of Louis’ dick- _he’s hard_ \- against his own groin. He doesn’t want to talk about his sister anymore. 

Louis clears his throat and, this time Harry’s sure of it, rolls his hips. They’re barely even dancing anymore. Harry loves to dance- it’s one of his favorite things in the whole world- but this, whatever-not-quite-dance-move-they’re-doing, it’s even better. 

Still, into Louis’ ear, Harry says, “You asked me to dance. You call this dancing?” 

Harry feels Louis’ laugh vibrate through him. Louis’ mouth is wet against Harry’s jaw when he replies, “I really thought you didn’t like dancing.” 

Harry rolls his hips up and then up again. He’s hard, too, now, and, though he flushes at the thought, he hopes Louis’ can feel it, hopes that it feels as thrilling to Louis as the answering press of Louis’ thigh against it. 

“I lied,” he says. “I love to dance.” 

Louis pulls back suddenly and his fingertips dig into Harry’s hips. His nails bite, and Harry wants to see the little half moon marks they’re sure to leave behind, wants to tattoo them onto his skin so that he never forgets the moment they’ve shared. 

A moment he’s almost certainly ruined with his honesty. 

“What? Why would you lie about that?” Louis’ eyes are wide. 

Harry chews his lip, trying to pull his tangled thoughts apart, unstick the one he needs from the mess of _Louislouislouislouis_ and _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ that it’s attached to. 

“I didn’t want you to know that no one wanted to go to the dance with me.” 

Harry’s barely finished his sentence before Louis is saying, “I wanted to go to the dance with you.” 

Louis raises his hands to his mouth, as though trying to hold back the words, but they’re already out and Harry’s already turning them over in his mind one by one. 

“ _You_ wanted to go to the dance with _me_.” He repeats. 

“That’s why I asked if anyone had asked you!” Louis huffs. He’s stepping closer again, but Harry’s still feeling wrongfooted. 

“But you and your friends are always laughing at me.” Why would Louis want to go to the dance with someone he clearly thought was a joke? 

Louis’ brows draw together and his hands find their way back to Harry’s waist. A little reluctantly, Harry allows himself to be drawn back in.

“They’ve been teasing me.” Then, quieter, right into Harry’s ear, he says, “I’ve never had a crush like the one I have on you. They’ve been trying to get me back for all the torture I’ve put them through about their girlfriends over the years.” 

Butterflies explode in Harry’s stomach. He feels warm all over. This is the best day of his life. He turns his head and kisses Louis. They’ve kissed before, but always in the secret of Harry’s bedroom, door locked, history books spread all around them. 

This time, as Louis’ warm, wet lips open beneath Harry’s, music swells around them. They’re not hiding, not from Gemma’s prying eyes nor from the coyote laughter of Louis’ friends. And so those things disappear. 

It’s just Louis’ hands, tugging loose Harry’s dress shirt and sliding underneath it to run his hands over the hot, damp skin of Harry’s back. It’s just Harry’s thigh sliding between Louis’ legs, so that Louis’ dick can ride it, harder and harder. 

It’s just…a tap on Harry’s shoulder and an unfamiliar clearing of someone’s throat. 

“Gentlemen.” The man speaking has a full beard and mustache and Harry thinks he’s seen him wandering the hallways during class hoping to catch youngsters who dare to wander the school without a pass. “Nothing sexual allowed on the dancefloor or we’ll have to escort you from the premises.” 

Louis raises an eyebrow in the man’s direction. “Jeffrey,” he says because apparently the two of them are on a first name basis, “you’d never say that to the straights.” 

The man’s eyes narrow and he nods in the direction of a couple dry humping a few feet away. “Watch me,” he says. 

Harry laughs and Louis makes a show of rearranging their bodies so that they swaying, stiff as boards, with two feet between them. “Better?” He asks Jeffrey with the beard. 

Jeffrey nods and stalks away toward his next victims. 

“I know where we can go,” Harry gasps. The idea- the daydream, really- pops into his head immediately, a familiar friend stopping in to say ‘hello’ at just the right moment. “The locker room.” 

Harry’s back pressed against a locker, Louis sweaty and half naked, holding him there- despite the bad luck of their last run-in, it still sounds like something out of Harry’s best dreams. 

Louis simply nods and drags Harry in the right direction. 

When they reach the quiet of the hallway, Louis says, “Never kissed anyone in the locker room before.” 

“Never?” Harry presses. He finds that hard to believe. Louis’ a high school football star after all. He’s had so much opportunity. 

Louis squeezes his hand and stops walking for a moment. The hall here is mostly deserted, aside from a freshmen sitting alone, texting beside the giant pile of jackets and coats. Looking down at his shoes and then up and straight into Harry’s eyes, Louis says, “I never _wanted_ to kiss anyone in the lockers before.” 

Harry feels himself flush even though he knows it must be a lie. Louis is on the football team and the wrestling team and the track team with lots of gorgeous boys, surely he must’ve wanted to kiss at least one of them. 

“It always seemed kind of gross. Unsanitary, you know?” Louis continues. 

Harry flushes a second time, now embarrassed that he’d even entertained the notion that he was somehow special to Louis, possibly even more special than any of his fabulously toned teammates. 

“We don’t have to…” Harry says. He’d never thought about it quite that way. No one ever mentions that in pornos. Besides people have sex in grosser places, like _bathroom stalls,_ all the time and it doesn’t really seem to be that big of a deal.

Louis smiles so wide his eyes crinkle in the corners. “No,” he says. “I want to. You could make any place sexy.” 

And then he’s pulling Harry down the hall and towards the locker room, now with greater urgency. 

Louis pushes the door open with his shoulder, and shouts, “Clear out, we’re about to fuck in here.” 

His voices echoes and a little spike of panic shoots up Harry’s back. What if someone _was_ in here? What if someone _heard_? 

Louis doesn’t seem bothered, though, because when no one replies, he pulls Harry deeper into the room. 

_Wait._ Louis had said they were going to _fuck_? Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. They haven’t seen each other naked yet. They haven’t even touched each other’s dicks. Harry’s heart pounds with renewed fear even while his dick jumps excitedly in his pants. 

Then, suddenly, Louis drops Harry’s hand and disappears into the darkness. 

And, fuck, is it dark. 

It’s so dark, in fact, that Harry loses track of where he begins and ends. He rubs his palms against his thighs, his mind tracing the outline of his own body, and takes several deep breaths. The air tastes thick with sweat and shitty cologne and he coughs it back out. In a matter of moments, he’s hopped from a daydream into a nightmare. 

This seems like the perfect place for a serial killer to lurk, waiting for young boys, just like them to wander in. What if he’s already caught Louis? What if he’s coming for Harry? 

Harry hears a hiss and then a shuffle. It might be Louis. It must be. 

“Louis,” he calls.

He hears more shuffling, farther away, now, but Louis doesn’t answer. 

That’s when realizes what’s going on. It’s not a serial killer. No, Louis and his friends lured him here as some sort of sick joke. They _were_ laughing at him after all and they’re going to beat him up. Or worse. 

He backs up a few steps and trips, falling against the cool cinderblock wall. “Louis?” He tries again. 

The light flicks on and Harry’s eyes hurt for a moment as they adjust to the brightness. 

When the spots disappear, Louis’ beside him again, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket. He’s about an arm's length away and he doesn’t come any closer. Harry looks around, half-expecting to see Louis’ friends lurking in the background. 

But, no, they’re alone. Harry stomach flip-flops. Louis doesn’t hate him. Louis might’ve been telling the truth when he said he wanted to take Harry to the dance. 

Except that Louis keeps his distance as he takes off his jacket and lays it across the wooden bench. 

“So,” Louis says, attention still on the jacket, smoothing a sleeve and straightening the lapel. 

Harry watches his careful movements and wonders why he’s standing so far away. Surely Louis doesn’t care about a few wrinkles in his suit and Harry’s arms itch to hold Louis and his lips itch to touch Louis’. 

Harry expects Louis to continue disrobing, maybe start in on the buttons of his shirt or his shoelaces. Instead, he sits down beside his jacket, ass half on top of the collar. 

Perhaps he’s waiting for Harry to follow suit, to begin taking off his clothes as well. His scrutiny falls heavy on Harry’s chest, and Harry feels like he’s moving through water- the ocean of Louis’ gaze- as he begins to loosen his own tie. 

“Harry,” Louis says. “Wait.” 

Harry freezes. 

“I wasn’t honest with you. About why my friends were laughing, I mean.” 

Harry sits down heavily, several feet separating his thighs from Louis’. He looks at his shoes and closes his eyes, willing Louis not to continue. 

“I might’ve-” Louis stops. “No, I definitely did. You probably don’t remember this, but back in October at the end of seventh hour, I think. You had dropped your towel.” 

Harry keeps his eyes shut. He does remember, of course, but he has a rotten feeling about where Louis is going with this. 

“It’s just, your dick is huge. It really surprised me- messed me up, sort of. I mean it was hard and huge and _right there_. It was all I could think about.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. He’d hoped, desperately, that Louis’d forgotten or hadn’t seen or at least hadn’t realized that Harry’d had a _boner_. 

“I couldn’t help myself. My friends asked me whether I’d seen a ghost and it just came out.” 

“What?” Harry says and then immediately hates himself for saying it. This is going to be _painful_.

“I might’ve said to them, ‘Gemma Styles little brother has the biggest dick I’ve ever seen.’” Louis’ face scrunches up. He’s looking at Harry again. Harry’s not looking back but he can see the wrinkle at the top of Louis’ nose out of the corner of his gaze. 

Harry resists to cover his lap with his hands. He hasn’t got a boner any more, thank god. 

“I always thought it was something I could be, like, proud of,” Harry says. “Like that it was better to have a big dick.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying this to Louis, but he’s not sure who else he could say it to. Gemma and his best friend, neither of them would understand, not having dicks and all. “But maybe it’s too big. Maybe it’s like, weird? Not normal, you know?” 

He chances a glance at Louis. Louis’ eyes have gone wide and he scoots close to Harry. “What? No. It _is_ something to be proud of.” 

Harry tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth and then lets it go. “So you were only making fun of me because you were jealous or something?” 

Louis lays a hand on Harry’s thigh. It’s normally a dangerous place for Louis to touch and, with all this talk about dicks, it’s not getting any less dangerous. Harry’s raging hard on is bound to return, despite the awkwardness of the moment. “No, god no. I mean, I wouldn’t mind having a dick like that but-” 

He pauses and then in one quick mumbled breath, says, “Iwasn’tmakingfunofyou- Ithoughtyourdickwashot.” 

Harry doesn’t understand. Like, he thinks he can pick apart Louis’ words, but they aren’t making sense to him. “What?” 

“I wasn’t making fun of you,” Louis says. “I wouldn’t make fun of you behind your back.” He punctuates this thought with a squeeze. 

“Okay…” 

Louis sighs. “I just thought it was really hot, is all.” 

The corner of Harry’s mouth lifts. “Your friends have been teasing you about how much you want my huge dick?” 

It sounds crude, like the lyrics of a rap song or something, but Harry can’t help the little flush of pride he feels at saying it aloud. 

Louis’ hands slide even further up Harry’s thigh. They’re as close to touching Harry’s dick as they’ve ever been. 

“Yeah,” Louis says. 

Harry expects the confirmation to wash him with relief, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t because it comes with the realization that _this_ is why Louis has been paying attention to him. This is why Louis wanted to be his partner. This is why Louis spent so much time kissing him and dancing with him. 

He’s just wanted to get his hands (or his mouth? Or maybe even his _ass_?) on Harry’s dick. That’s all. 

Harry’d been okay with their connection being purely physical _in theory._ But now that he’s confronted with the truth that this is _really and truly_ all it is, he’s not okay with it. 

He feels more embarrassed about his big dick than he had when he thought Louis and his friends were making fun of it.

He takes a quick, shallow breath. His dick has _betrayed_ him. 

“I _liked_ you,” Harry says. “I mean, at first, you were just Louis Tomlinson, _football star_. But then you became Louis Tomlinson football star, who’s funny to chat to and who my mom likes to have over for dinner and whose kisses make me feel dizzy and who is weirdly good at copying Chinese characters onto poster board.“ 

Harry hadn’t planned to say this, but it’s true and he supposes if he’s out here embarrassing himself, he might as well go all the way, so he finishes, “I really wanted ask you to the Winter Ball, but I was scared because I thought you didn’t like me back and I guess I was right.” 

Louis’ brows are knit together and his fingernails are digging into the top of Harry’s thigh. “What? How can you say that? I just confessed that I put up with a _whole hell of a lot_ of teasing about you because I like you?” 

“My dick. You like my dick.” He closes his eyes and mentally crosses his fingers. He doesn’t think Louis will disagree, but he hopes. He hopes that maybe he’s wrong. “That’s what you like about me, right?” 

“That. And your dimples and the way you stick your tongue out when you’re concentrating on making bubble letters and how good you are at memorizing dates and how whenever I kiss your neck you whine this super hot little whine-” He takes a breath and looks like he might go on. 

But Harry doesn’t need him to. He leans over presses their mouths together. 

Louis’ fingers inch forward again so that they are pressing up against Harry’s dick through the thin fabric of his dress pants. 

Against Louis’ lips, Harry says, “Oh my god. You really want to touch it, don’t you?” Harry’s voice has a rough edge he doesn’t expect and Louis pulls away. 

“It’s just we keep _talking_ about it,” Louis mutters. 

Harry grabs Louis’ hand and moves it back, so that now it rests over his erection. “I want you to touch it, too.”

Louis does, his hand closing around Harry through the fabric. It's electric, a bolt that zips through him, heating top to bottom to middle. That's where it ends, at his groin, his balls drawing up and pressing him all the more tightly into Louis’ hand. 

Harry closes his eyes and draws in a breath. He’s not going to come. Not yet, not when there’s clothing between them still. 

“Wait.” His voice is unrecognizable, rough and deep as that of an aging rock star. He clears his throat. “I want-” and there, that sounds better, more like a teenager at least “-my pants…” 

He doesn't have to finish the sentence for Louis to catch his meaning because Louis’ pulling them both up onto their feet and walking Harry the two steps back to the wall of lockers. 

His pants are loose enough that once Louis’ fumbles free the belt and unbuttons the top button, they fall to the floor with a whoosh of cool air. Louis doesn’t bother with Harry’s boxers. Harry’s dick sticks mostly out of the hole in the front and Louis cool hand wraps around it, tight. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis says, “You just feel so.” He groans. 

His hand is beginning to move, back and forth. Harry hiccups a breath, falling back fully into the lockers. 

There's nearly a foot between their chests, enough distance that Louis’ eyes can comfortably rest on the spot where his fingers are wrapped around Harry's skin. Harry watches, too, mesmerized by the way the rhythm sinks into him, lines up with the beating of his heart and the pace of his desperate sex-soaked mind. 

Except then Louis speeds up and his fist tightens and Harry's jarred into gasping. 

“Do you think you can-”

“I'm so close,” Harry interrupts, remembering his first hookup and the way he'd spilled- messy and long- over their clothes, catching them both by surprise. He doesn't want to do that to Louis. 

He thinks he hears a noise- high pitched and desperate- echoing through the locker room, but he’s not sure. He’s not sure of anything, not sure that he won’t wake up to find that he’s been living in a spectacular daydream these last six weeks, not sure that those are Louis’ blue eyes holding his gaze, not sure that it’s his dick that’s twitching and spilling between them. He’s not sure that any of it is _real_ and, for a wild moment, his head spins and it all goes black. 

“Harry,” Louis murmurs, drawing him back. “Hey, Harry. Are you alright?”

As the world comes into focus again, Harry realizes his back is on fire in several spots where locker handles have wedged themselves up against his skin. 

Louis likes him. Louis wanted to go to the dance with him. Louis thinks he's cute and smart. Louis’ fantasized about Harry's dick so much that his friends make fun of him for it. 

Louis had pushed him up against a locker and jerked him off. 

Harry smiles at Louis, blinking. “You like me.” 

Louis chokes out a laugh. “Yeah, I do.” 

“I like you, too.” 

The words hang in the air for a moment, soft and sweet, until Harry realizes that Louis’ come covered hand is hanging in the air next to them. 

He laughs and pulls on Louis’ wrist, “Sorry. Here you can just...” Harry wipes it off on his boxers. 

While his gaze is trained downwards, he catches sight of Louis’ erection tenting his dress pants and a wave of embarrassment washes over him. He hadn’t even thought… 

He meets Louis’ eyes. “Can I touch you, now?” 

Louis nods and, with shaky hands, Harry works to free Louis from his pants. Harry tries to draw deep, steadying breaths- _he knows what he’s doing, he’s done this before_ \- but then Louis gives him a kiss, and, like a drug, it slows his mind. His hands forget what they’re doing, finding their way to Louis’ hips and then his ass. 

When Louis breaks the kiss, Harry stares into his eyes, traces the few freckles on his cheeks beneath the brush of his eyelashes. Slowly, he becomes aware of a rhythmic rub of fabric. He casts his gaze downward to see Louis’ hand stroking his own dick in hard, even tugs. 

The tails of Louis’ shirt frame the view and Louis’ hand still glistens with Harry’s come. Harry’s never seen anything sexier in his life. 

He wraps his hand around Louis’ own, fingers slipping between fingers so that he feels the heat of Louis’ dick against his skin. He flexes, burrowing in for more. 

Louis cries out- he’s so _loud-_ and Harry feels the wet of his come as it slides down over their joined hands. 

Harry did that. He pulled that noise out of Louis, that orgasm, because Louis _likes_ him. 

They wipe off their hands in quiet, but they’re both smiling. 

“I can’t believe you were to scared to ask me to the dance,” Harry says, thinking back to before, in the gym, and before that when he’d almost asked Louis in the cafeteria. 

Louis refastens his belt, smirking. “I can’t believe _you_ lied about not liking to dance.” He shoulders Harry lightly to punctuate the statement and Harry laughs. 

They walk that way, giggling and pushing each other, over to the sinks, where they wash their hands and fix their hair. It’s here, when they’re staring into each other’s eyes in the glass, that Harry first hears it, soft at first, then louder. 

Someone is shouting Louis’ name. And Harry’s, too. Out in the hall. 

They make their way out of the locker room quickly. Harry’s pretty sure that it’s just Louis’ friends and he’s even more sure that if it were _serious_ , they would have texted. 

Turns out, they don’t have anything pressing to say, at all. 

“Was he good, Harry?” One of the boys- Tall, Dark and Handsome- asks. The others snicker, falling into each other, making ‘ooo’ and ‘ahh’ noises between their gasps of laughter. 

Harry stares at them. Hard. There’s three of them leaning against the wall by the locker room. Their dates must’ve ditched them. Good call. 

“What do you want to know? I mean, specifically?” Harry asks. Now that he knows why they’ve been laughing, it’s not so intimidating. “What noise he makes when he comes? How talented he is with his hands? The exact length and girth of my dick?” 

The boy who’d spoken chokes mid-laugh, his eyes watering a little. The others, a moment ago pale under the bright florescent lights of the hallway, are now stained various shades of pink as they study the linoleum at their feet and the cinderblock walls surrounding. 

“What the fuck?” The Redhead mutters, catching Louis’ eye. 

Instead of answering him, Louis turns to whisper into Harry’s ear. “Now these guys? These guys are jealous of you and your huge dick. And they should be. I’ve seen what they’re working with.”

“What? What are you saying?” Tall, Dark and Handsome asks, pushing away from the wall. 

“Oh, nothing,” Louis tells him. 

And then to Harry, he adds, “It’s true, I swear.” He’s laughing. And so is Harry. 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](http://juliusschmidt.tumblr.com/post/162357873710/written-for-the-1000-feelings-challenge)


End file.
